


Someone you loved

by thatswutshesaid



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, First Kiss, Getting Together, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Holmessexual, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jim Moriarty's Web, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Major Character Injury, Marriage Proposal, Mary is a part of Moriarty's network, Not Actually Unrequited Love, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, i'll add more tags as it progresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:21:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22825525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatswutshesaid/pseuds/thatswutshesaid
Summary: It all seemed like a monumental waste of time. He spent years mourning for a man that wasn't dead, crying at a grave that held nobody, wishing that Sherlock was there to tell him that sentiment was useless and promised nothing but pain. And now Sherlock was there, looking confident and cocky as ever, unruly mop of curls painfully familiar, and- "Get out." The mad bastard had the nerve to look confused. "Sorry?" His throat felt tight with tears he was desperately trying to hold back, unwilling to let the man see him fall apart.Betrayal. Anger. Embarrassment. Relief. Hap- No. Just- No."Get. The Fuck. Out of my face."Don't own characters, just having fun!In which Sherlock isn't forgiven quite so easily.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson (just in the beginning), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 188





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Excited to go on this adventure of a fic. (:  
> I hope you enjoy!

It all seemed like a monumental waste of time. He spent years mourning for a man that wasn't dead, crying at a grave that held nobody, wishing that Sherlock was there to tell him that sentiment was useless and promised nothing but pain. And now Sherlock was there, looking confident and cocky as ever, unruly mop of curls painfully familiar, and- "Get out." The mad bastard had the nerve to look confused. "Sorry?" His throat felt tight with tears he was desperately trying to hold back, unwilling to let the man see him fall apart.   
  
Betrayal. Anger. Embarrassment. Relief. Hap- No. Just- No.  
  
"Get. The Fuck. Out of my face."  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a rather bemused Mary, and then he remembered where they were. He'd almost forgotten about her altogether. Sherlock- _god was it really him?_ \- opened and closed his mouth like a fish, stumbling over his words like a nervous child. John knew he would feel bad later. "Right- of course, uh- I'm sorry." He was gone before John could say anything else.  
  
  
...........  
  
The air felt colder than it was ten minutes ago, the chilly air feeling as if it was biting into his flesh. He'd been so stupid. John had moved on, he had a life now. A girlfriend (he ignored the pain in his chest that caused) soon to be fiance, if the box in his pocket was anything to go by.  
  
John had a new life, and there was simply no room for Sherlock anymore. How John must hate him. He had missed John dearly, but at least he knew his _(no,_ not his, _never_ his) doctor was alive, he'd made sure that Mycroft would see to that. Any pain, however, mental or otherwise, that John experienced, was necessary. As much as it hurt Sherlock to admit it, it was for the greater good. He'd much rather have John hate him with a murderous passion than have him in the ground.  
  
It was too late now, too late to imagine how Sherlock would feel if their roles were reversed, if he saw John jump off a roof. He was always Sherlock's iron rod, the reason why he did anything, the person who cared enough to keep him from drugs, from cigarettes, from being his own destruction. Christ, John must have felt like a failure. Too late to change anything.   
  
He hailed a cab quickly, eager to get back to the hotel room Mycroft had prepared for him. He wasn't sure, after tonight, if he was ready to face Mrs.Hudson just yet. They had all moved on, now. He wondered if he should come back at all. It might just open old wounds. He wasn't sure if he could be there without John anyway. 

This could work. Mycroft probably had dozens of cases the government wanted him to work on, Sherlock would swallow his pride, accept a job, and dare he say it- _work_ with his brother. 

He detested the very idea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock misses John. John lets a shield of hate and anger hide his real feelings.
> 
> Again, I'm total shit when it comes to these summaries. Just read.

John lay restless in his bed that night, wrestling with his blankets as if they had personally offended him. Mary had left hours ago, even though John insisted she was welcome to stay. But, ever the wise woman that she was, she said he needed some time alone, to think, to process this. She was probably right. He eventually gave up on sleep altogether, hoping that a little tea and some crap telly might help. 

The night was deceptively calm, the noises of London soft and almost soothing now. 

It'd been a while since he'd been to Baker Street, brushing off Mrs. Hudson whenever she suggested they meet. He felt awful of course, ignoring the poor woman who'd come to be a close friend. But it had been too painful, the thought of even walking through the door. Once upon a time, he might've killed to walk in and not smell bleach and rotten eggs, a human hand on the counter the subject of some ridiculous experiment. Then, when he thought he was dead, he'd have given anything to be woken up to Sherlock shooting the bloody walls like a maniac.

But that was then. Now, knowing that brilliant man was out there, knowing that by some _miracle,_ he had been sent back to him- and John _had sent him away._ He assured himself that his actions were justified, any sane man might've killed him then and there, and while that may be true, the idea of Sherlock- beautiful, brilliant, Sherlock- out there, and still not in his life was too much to bear. 

But he'd have to. Because he knew now better than anyone that being friends with Sherlock Holmes only caused heartache. And he refused to put himself through that again for the sake of nostalgia.

Anyways, he supposed, it didn't matter. He still had Mary, sweet, wonderful Mary, and if his future with her seemed a little less appealing, the future he wanted in his mind filled with fond bickering and sharp cheekbones and adrenaline filled chases, well, that was nobody's business but his own.

..........

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Sherlock groaned, throwing a pillow over his head to block out the noise. When it first started he had hoped with all his soul he'd open the door to find John and everything would go back to normal. After listening to it a moment, however, he found this not to be the case. John didn't knock that way, all formal and business-like. John's rhythm was distinctive.

More than likely it was Mycroft or at least one of his lackeys, and it was too early and Sherlock had gotten too little sleep to deal with his brother's shit. "Mr.Holmes! Wake up, please! There's a car waiting for you!" He rolled his eyes. No. If Mycroft wanted to talk to him, he could call him or at least present himself in person. And _then_ would tell him to fuck off. 

"I didn't order a bloody car, now sod off or I'll open that door and snap you in two!"

The voice said nothing else, and he let out a huff of relief. He needed a cigarette. A nicotine patch, anything! 

_No, Sherlock, you promised me!_

Sherlock couldn't help the small, pathetic little whimper of distress that left him when he heard the voice in his head, angry at himself for being able to remember John's voice so clearly. He used to think it a skill, John's voice a way to soothe his panic when he was in a bit of trouble while on his little vacation, but now it just _hurt._

He deserved it, he knew, for all the pain he'd caused him. Sherlock also knew that he was lucky to walk away with his nose still intact, but he'd been naive. Naive and childish enough to believe he could walk back into John's life and continue on as if nothing had changed, John half-heartedly scolding him for the toes in the fridge, John's brilliant smile as he watched all the pieces in Sherlock's head click and then they were off. Tea and biscuits in the morning, longing from a distance. He'd let himself be so sentimental, hopeful. So _disgustingly human._

Sherlock flopped himself out of bed, head pounding with another god awful migraine, and set about making some tea. He popped a Tylenol or two but knew it would do no good. He remembered with a sad smile how John would let him sit his head in his lap, playing with Sherlock's curls until the pain subsided. Ever the caring doctor. He wondered if John would talk to him again. Sherlock didn't let himself hope any longer- that was a dangerous thing. 

He'd functioned fine taking down Moriarty's web, knowing that the faster he did it the faster he could go home to John. But John wasn't his home anymore. And now, he couldn't think of a world where he could plug along without the doctor.

His brain felt fuzzy, too depressed and lonely to allow room for boredom. 

Small mercies, he supposed.

..........

John's day seemed so much slower. It felt, ironically, like the first few days after Sherlock's 'death'. He knew that man- that _brilliant_ , kind man with the _infuriatingly_ gorgeous eyes- had caused him so much pain, and that it was stupid to let Sherlock hurt him any longer, especially knowing what he'd done. He wondered if Sherlock ever really considered him a friend. Friends don't let friends mourn someone who isn't dead for years. Did Sherlock have _any_ idea of what that did to him? 

How he broke down the morning when he woke up with a throbbing pain in his leg? How the nightmares increased tenfold, seeing Sherlock's genius brain splattered across the sidewalk? How did it feel when he walked into the sitting room and found it to be completely devoid of his best friend, his cologne still lingering in the air? It felt like _shit._ Did Sherlock know that? Did he know, but decided that the case was more important than him?

John knew the questions were pointless, of course, he'd forget about Sherlock and he doubted Sherlock would have that much trouble forgetting him. He felt his chest tighten with the thought of Sherlock _deleting_ him. 

Would he do that? _It doesn't_ _matter,_ he lied to himself, _I don't care._

But he already knew that he couldn't just _forget_ him. _Nobody_ could forget Sherlock Sodding Holmes.

And again, if he was glad that he'd still have those memories of running away from the cops, Sherlock's cuffed hand intertwined with his? Well, no one had to know.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's beginning to have doubts about his relationship with Mary. Sherlock returns to Baker Street.

_"Good morning, little brother."_

Sherlock fought the impulse to throw the phone against the wall and shrivel up into a ball of loneliness, self-pity, and misery. 

" _Fuck you._ "

" _I assume your little reunion didn't go as planned?"_

"So help me god, if you say 'I told you so' I will _not be responsible for my own actions._ "

" _You haven't left your room in three days."_ Sherlock huffed in annoyance and rolled his eyes.

"Good thing I have you around, _to point out the obvious!_ "

" _Have you been to see your landlady?"_ Sherlock was growing tired of this useless conversation.

"You _know_ I haven't." And that was the end of that.

Sherlock knew he must look like hell. He hadn't eaten, his stomach held nothing but the occasional cup of tea. He hadn't shaved either, and now that the initial and complete loss of John had worn off slightly, he felt as if he was suffocating in boredom. Sherlock wasn't certain he was ready to face the world yet. 

He had his violin, Mycroft had been sure to move some of his stuff there, and while normally he wouldn't be worried about other people hearing it and wouldn't care if they got upset, he did not want to be thrown out the hotel. But even he knew when enough sulking was enough, and he had a feeling that Mycroft was a hair away from dragging him out of bed (or sending someone to). 

Pulling himself out of bed, he went to take a quick shower. The hot water soothed his aching bones, and he tried to fight the all-consuming fear of facing any more people. But he couldn't stay here forever, and if John didn't kill him boredom surely would. 

He didn't look in the mirror on his way out, not ready to see the horrid scars that marred his pale body. 

Sherlock fumbled into his suit, only then realizing he forgot to shave his 5 o'clock shadow. _No matter_ , he decided, since when did he give a shit? He swung open the door, flipping off My's camera as he walked away. _Sod him, sod Moriarty, sod the fucking the world._

..........

"Have you seen him again?" Mary inquired gently, and John sighed, rolling his eyes.

"No, and I don't plan to," he spat the words out as if they were poison. The past three days had been hell, and it annoyed the fucking hell out of him, that even now Sherlock had so much control over his life. 

Mary must have heard the venom in his voice, dropping the subject entirely. 

"Harry called yesterday, while you were at work. She's coming to London on a business trip, wanted to know if you'd like to have lunch tomorrow."

_Bloody perfect. Just what he needed._

He sighed in resignation.

"I'll call her back this evening." She gave him an understanding smile. He felt guilty, he'd been in a bit of a mood, and he'd been short with her lately. "Well, I'm off then, I have a brunch date with Izabelle. See you later?" He nodded, giving her a swift peck on the lips. "Love you," she smiled charmingly, returned the sentiment, and disappeared out the door. John ignored how terribly hollow he felt after saying those words, guilty as if he'd said it to the wrong person. "Ridiculous," he muttered to himself, pulling on his suit, taking one last look in the mirror before heading to the clinic. "You love Mary."

..........

Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock almost gave each other a heart attack. He hadn't expected the ear-shattering scream that came from the poor woman. 

He wouldn't lie, it was nice to have someone who (after a good scolding and a smack on the head) was happy to see him. She ushered him into a chair, pouring him a cup of tea and handing him a plate of supper. "My god, Sherlock, you're as thin as a _rail_ _!_ " He rolled his eyes yet again, looking at the plate with a look of distaste. "While your concern is _touching,"_ he snarked sarcastically, "I don't have the biggest appetite right now." She gave him a stern look. "Goodness, Sherlock, it's like trying getting a child to eat their veggies," there was no mistaking the fondness in her voice, and he couldn't help the small smile that took over his face. Well, this wasn't near as bad as he imagined.

He still, however, didn't touch his food. "Have you been to see John yet?" At the mention of John's name he visibly deflated. "No. Yes? Sort of," Mrs. Hudson's face turned sympathetic. "He didn't take it well?" He stabbed a piece of meat on his plate, popping it into his mouth. She seemed to share his sadness. "He hasn't come to see you, has he?" Sherlock asked, giving her a look of understanding. She shook her head. "I understand, I really do. Your little venture _destroyed_ him, Sherlock. He couldn't stand to have many reminders of that around. I just wish he would have called, to let me know he was fine. A call from _you_ would have been nice too, you know." He nodded solemnly.

After a few moments of melancholy silence, Mrs. Hudson looked up with a hopeful smile. "Where are you staying? Your flat's just as you left it, minus the science equipment and experiments." Sherlock shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage. "Some hotel Mycroft shoved me into. I was hoping I might be able to come back here, I hate that Mycroft controls my living environment." She chuckled and Sherlock gave her a bemused look. "Yes, of course! It would be so lovely to have you back, Sherlock. It's been so quiet lately, and I haven't had the heart to rent out the flat." Sherlock smirked in satisfaction, feeling much better than he did this morning. "Excellent. I'll have my stuff moved. Now, if you would excuse me, I have another engagement."

..........

_Up for a pint? I get off at 8. -GL_

John breathed a sigh of relief. A pint sounded lovely.

_That sounds great_ _. Cooper's? -JW_

..........

" _Those things will kill you."_

Greg thanked his experience in dealing with shock for not letting his heart jump out of his throat. His head swam theories and realizations, cigarette forgotten. His chest felt lighter, guilt for feeling like he pushed Sherlock off that roof completely vanished. 

"Oh, _you bastard_."

That smart arse stepped out of the shadows, having the nerve to call him _Graham_.

_"Greg."_

"Greg."

He pulled the mad man into a crushing hug, smiling because he was _there_ , _real, solid, and alive._ He considered being angry but decided they were probably even. Greg called him a fake, and Sherlock went and (not really) offed himself.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and Greg reluctantly let go. Then, remembering the time, he checked his watch. "Christ! I have to meet John at the pub! _Wait,_ does he know?"

Sherlock gravely nodded. "But if I were you, I wouldn't mention me, Detective Inspector." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Comments and tips make me happy~(:


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has a talk with John. Sherlock receives a call.

John knew it as soon as he saw Greg walk through the door. The man had an extra bounce in his step, the creases on his face less prominent, eyes brighter than John had seen them in a while. They ordered their drinks. John cleared his throat. "So, uh, he's gone to see you too, then?" Greg's smile immediately dissolved. "Surprised me when I went out for a smoke. Scared me out of my wits." John couldn't help but crack a smile. "He thinks you hate him. Do you?" John scoffed. "I could be wrong Greg, but I don't think that's your business," _God, when had he started being so rude to his friends?_ "I know, John I just- did you even give him a chance to explain himself?" John sighed, why did _he_ look like the bad guy?

"Well, no I guess not, but-"

"I know you went through hell when he died, John. _We all did_. But he dismantled Moriarty's web. _By himself_. Did you ever consider what may have happened to him?" 

_Oh._ John felt a completely unjustified surge of anger and protectiveness at the thought of someone daring to hurt Sherlock. John Watson always found it hard to hold a grudge. _But dammit he tried so hard._

At John's silence, Lestrade continued.

"And he may claim himself to be a sociopath, but you and I both know he's just as human as the rest of us. Do you think, do you _honestly_ think that he would have hurt you so badly if there were any other way?"

John wanted to say he didn't care, that it didn't matter anymore. That he wanted nothing more to do with Sherlock Holmes.

_You never have been a good liar, John._

He shot a mental glare at the voice in his head and sighed. 

"Look I'm not saying you forgive him and continue on like nothing ever happened. Just- hear him out, _please?_ And if you still hate him and never want to see him again, I'll never mention it again."

John nodded in resignation. "Okay, fine, I'll give him a ring soon, okay? Shit, I _hate_ it when you're reasonable."

Greg chuckled. "So, how's Mary doing?"

..........

It was all over the news for days. 

' _Hat detective alive!'_

_'Sherlock Holmes returns from the dead!'_

Mrs. Hudson was more cheerful than ever, bringing him tea and biscuits, and if she only brought one cup now, Sherlock ignored it. Mycroft had sent his belongings, having the good wisdom to not come in person. It disgusted Sherlock that he ever even _considered_ working with that lard of a man. "Have you talked to John?" He shot a glare at the woman. "Were you _always_ this _nosy?_ " And went back to pretending to read one of his books. 

It had only gotten worse if that were even possible. John was out in London, in love and planning a wedding with what's her name. And Sherlock couldn't focus on _anything!_ It was infuriating, every waking thought being consumed by yet another person who despised him. Sherlock never cared about what anyone thought of him, but John Watson, as always, was the exception. 

To be fair, this would've happened even if Sherlock hadn't jumped off that godforsaken roof. John would've found some average woman, who would never be worthy of him, and John would've forgotten about him, leave him and Sherlock would be right back where he started. Alone, a needle in his arm. Only he couldn't even do that now. On the off chance that John ever came back, he didn't want to upset or disappoint him. Sherlock promised him. And Sherlock wouldn't break any more promises. 

Lestrade had no cases above level 4, and he wanted to bang his head on the wall just so he had something to _do._ When did all of England's criminals get so _painfully boring?!_ The most interesting case he'd had presented to him by a private party was a woman who thought her wife was cheating on her. She was delusional, obviously, the shadow ring on her finger was _years_ old and the so-called 'mistress' was her ex's new partner. 

He tried to focus on the book in his hand, take his mind off his own hopeless situation, but he wasn't even sure he could recall the subject. "Sherlock, have you seen my earring? I can't find it in mine, an-" Sherlock threw the book at the wall in a fit of frustration. " _For the love of God, Woman, leave me be!"_ His landlady mumbled something about the neighbors and scrambled down the stairs. 

Sherlock threw his hands in the air in dramatic irritation. "I can't _think!_ " He shouted at the skull on the mantel. "Doesn't he _know?!_ Doesn't he _understand? John always understands, always!"_ He flopped back on the sofa, eyes stinging with the threat of tears. He was doing just fine before John came along! And then that stupid, kind, army doctor that found his skill _brilliant_ instead of repulsive had to come along and make him _human_. 

Mycroft was right, as much as it hurt Sherlock's pride to admit. _Caring is not an advantage!_ But he'd been so foolish, so blinded by his desire to have John in his life, even if it was strictly platonic. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ Where was his gun? He needed to shoot something! But it was nowhere to be found, Mycroft probably removing it from his things. _Probably best,_ Sherlock thought, who knew what Sherlock would do with that thing? He knew, and so did Mycroft. And as brash as his brother was, Sherlock doubted he wanted to make his death permanent. He was protecting him from himself.

He was doing what John wouldn't anymore.

When his phone rang on the stand he rolled his eyes. Gary knew he preferred to text. _Mycroft. What could he possibly want?_ He ignored it at first, but his brother was persistent, as always, and by the third time he snatched up his phone with an almost crushing grip.

" _What the hell do you want from me?!"_ There was an almost confused silence on the other end. Strange. Mycroft wouldn-

"I thought you'd be happier to hear from me."

..........

" _John?"_ Sherlock's voice sounded more weak and vulnerable than John had _ever, ever_ heard it. He sounded broken, voice rough and scratchy. Sherlock sounded like he'd been crying. He had never heard or seen Sherlock cry. John hated it.

"Yes, uh, you're not busy are you?" 

"No," Another barely heard response. 

"Sorry- I just wasn't expecting your call." Sherlock sounded more composed now, sounded more like his normal self. John couldn't help but smile. Not long ago he thought he'd never hear that sweet, smooth voice again.

"Listen, Sherlock, I'm sorry for what happened at t-"

"No John, don't apologize to me. I got off lucky, as far as I'm concerned."

"Right, um, well," This felt wrong. There was a time when conversation flowed easily between them, not tense and careful as if they'd break each other if they spoke too loudly, "All the same, I should give you a chance to explain yourself. I was hoping maybe I could come by after work, if you're not busy with a case, that is."

What Sherlock said next made John frown, "You'll _really_ come over, John? You _promise?"_ He sounded so fragile, so un-Sherlock, like he expected John to laugh into the speaker and say 'April fools'. 

John would never be that cruel, not to Sherlock, not even now. "Yeah, Sherlock, I promise."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys finally talk.

It was 4:13 when Mrs. Hudson came back up, approximately 2 hours, 16 minutes and 23 seconds until John said he'd be here. Sherlock kept himself busy by playing his violin in the window, the now graceful music a nice contrast from the screeching he'd taken to playing at midnight these days. "Well, you're feeling better then?" Sherlock adamantly ignored her, unwilling to risk breaking this newfound peace. Of _course,_ he felt better. _John's coming!_ At this point he didn't care if John only came to spit in his face, he just _needed to see him._ John would understand once Sherlock explained, he was sure of it. 

Of course, if anything boredom only increased with the growing impatience. Sherlock felt as if he were going to implode, and if Gunther didn't give him a half-interesting case within the next 18 hours, setting London on fire was a real consideration. But for now, he was just glad John was coming to see him. He stopped abruptly, an intense bout of thirst washing over him. "I require tea!" Mrs. Hudson shot him a stern look. " _I'm not your housekeeper,_ Sherlock," He smiled too-sweetly, like a child begging for a cookie. "Yes, of course." His face dropped all at once. " _I need tea!"_ She jumped a little, beginning to set about making him a cuppa. "Your mother has a lot to answer for."

"I know. I have a list," He grumbled, sprawling into his chair, "Mycroft has a file." Sherlock's fingers fidgeted on the wood of the chair arm. "You seem more chipper." He barely held a back a smile. "John's coming over," he said like a boy who was having his first sleepover. "Really? Oh, that's lovely, Sherlock." He forced an indifferent look on his face. "I suppose." Sherlock sneered at her knowing smile.

"So I forgot to ask, how's he looking these days?" 

"Was a bit too busy being yelled at to notice." Mrs. Hudson actually laughed.

"You're _never_ too busy to notice, Sherlock." He couldn't help but smirk. 

"Got a new sleeping medication from his therapist recently, though it hasn't been working. Been going to the gym more recently, to impress his new- _partner._ His sister has been reaching out to him but he's been brushing it off. He has a _monstrosity_ of a caterpillar growing on his upper lip. His limp is back. Oh... and he's getting engaged."

Her face was suddenly empathetic. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." 

"What for? There's nothing to be _sorry_ about," he feigned ignorance and confusion, but she knew him better than that, damn the woman.

"Of course," her tone was unconvincing.

"There isn't!"

"Absolutely. I have a few errands to run. See you later."

..........

"So you're really going?" John spared Mary a glance as he combed his hair. He'd changed out of his work clothes, wanting to get the smell of latex and antiseptic off of himself. "Yeah, I'm really going. Why is that so hard to believe?" She shrugged. "I don't know, it's just a bit of a surprise, that's all." He genuinely smiled at her. John wasn't near as nervous or angry as he thought he'd be. He wasn't completely without nerves, of course, but it was _Sherlock, Baker Street!_ How many times had he been to 221B? Talked with Sherlock? 

John found he wasn't very opposed to the idea of seeing that smart-arse again. Not in his nightmares, not in some unreachable dream, but _there, really there._ Not going to disappear when John blinks.

"What're you going to say to him?" John hadn't thought about it much. He'd been too busy trying to calm his own worries. "I don't really know, to be honest. I suppose he's the one with the explaining to do." 

She nodded and kissed him, and John stubbornly pushed away that stupid feeling of wrongness gnawing in his gut that appeared every time they had kissed. "Well, good luck. I might go shopping, so I might not be here when you get back. Try not to kill him, _please?_ I don't want to have our wedding in the warden's office," _The wedding!_ It made him feel like the worst boyfriend/unofficial fiance ever to have forgotten about it (only momentarily, of course). John had been so pre-occupied about meeting with Sherlock. 

_Not important, John! You're missing the obvious!_

He shrugged the thought off, said bye, and ignored something that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock yelling _Izabelle_ and _shopping_ in the back of his mind.

_Observe John, observe!_

He hailed a cab and tried to regain control of his thoughts. 

_Focus,_ he thought, _this is going to take your full attention._

But John did forget one thing. They don't know an Izabelle. 

..........

It was nearing 6:35 and Sherlock was a pinch away from climbing the walls. His curls flew in every direction as he ran his hands through them, with the thought of John bailing and the overwhelming need to turn his brain off, Sherlock was in agony. His tea had now gone tepid, rattling it every time he paced by. 

When the doorbell rang he stopped in his tracks, almost rushing down the stairs, but instead, he held his ground. Preparing for a fight, but hoping for the best, he tried to find something to busy himself with, not wanting to look like he'd been there wearing a hole in the floor an hour (which he had). But he only just managed to throw himself onto the sofa. He rolled his eyes at _himself. Christ!_ He was like a _school girl_ not wanting to seem too eager.

"Yoo-hoo! Sherlock! John's here!" His heart was in his throat, palms sweaty, as he looked up to find the most welcome and somehow most feared sight. "You boys play nice!" Mrs. Hudson shouted as she went back down to her flat. 

_Say something, Sherlock, insult his mustache, the bags under his eyes, anything!_

"Hello," He mentally face palmed himself. This was so unlike him, he was _always_ sure of himself, always snarky, confident. Sherlock couldn't even remember the last time he'd said hello to someone, not counting undercover purposes. Thankfully, John didn't seem to even hear him, the doctor looked like he was in another world, staring at him like he'd grown a third arm. 

"John?" This seemed to snap him out of it, a faint flush on his cheeks. "Uh, sorry, yes, hi." And then the staring match was back on.

"Would you like something to drink? I could make some tea? Mine's gone cold," John nodded, a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring gracing his face, _and God had Sherlock missed that smile,_ and he decided to do the one thing he hardly _ever_ did. _Make his own tea._ But he'd do it for John. Anything for John.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the shorter man settle into his armchair, and for a moment he could pretend that nothing had happened, that Sherlock had never left. That John had never met Mary. "So, uh, Sherlock, how have you been?" Sherlock kicked himself for not asking the same question to John, but he had to know that Sherlock had known everything that had happened to him in the past week. Transparent, really.

_Well,_ he thought, _I've been shit. Bored to the point of insanity. I've heard about absolutely nothing besides Mrs. Hudson's pregnant niece for the past week._ _I've missed you._ Perhaps best if he condensed it a little. "It's been.... _slow_." To his surprise, he heard John laugh. "I noticed. You look like death, case withdrawal stage 3 or 4, I'd say," Sherlock was shocked he remembered his moods that well. 

He set the tea down carefully, trying to steady his shaking hands. _Making tea_ , he thought with a scoff, _Mycroft would have a field day._ It was after a few tense moments of silence that Sherlock dared to speak up. He chose his next words carefully, not wanting John to become angry with him again. But seriously, he'd have to tell him to get rid of that eyebrow above his mouth. "Do you want to know how?" John shot him a disbelieving look. _No, John, don't be mad, I want you to understand. Just listen! "No, Sherlock,_ you git. I don't want to know _how_ , I want to know _why,"_ He was using his Captain Watson voice, something that occupied a lot of Sherlock's _very_ vivid dreams. But now it terrified him to the core.

"Why? Because Moriarty had to be stopped." John gave him that pissed look of 'Are you _really_ a genius?' and it took a fraction of a second for Sherlock to understand. "Oh why as in- that's a little harder to explain," John leaned back in his chair, looking as if he'd never left the thing. "I've got all night." John's voice was deeper, strained, obviously pissed at him, as Sherlock knew he had every right to be. 

"Moriarty had _snipers_ on you, John! Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade! What did you expect me to do?" The tension in John's face eased but didn't vanish, as if he was _trying_ to keep it that way.

"You could have told me you were alive, for starters!" Had John always been this difficult?

"Don't you think I wanted to John? That I wanted to hear your voice after being surrounded by people that wanted me dead on a daily basis? You _couldn't_ know, John. Do you have any idea the kind of target that would put on your back? _All of you._ The kind of people that would want you dead?" John pursed his lips, obviously trying to come up with a response.

"You couldn't know, John. Not until I took down Moriarty's network."

"Moriarty's dead?" Sherlock gave him his 'well that's a dumbarse question' look. 

"Shot himself on the roof." 

John's emotions took a sharp turn. His adam's apple bobbed, eyes and face getting red. John looked like he was trying not to cry. _Wait, no, that's wrong. Why would he be crying? He shouldn't be crying. John should never, ever_ cry. Sherlock ran over his words desperately, searching for something he said wrong. _Did Moriarty's death really affect him this way? It seemed unlikely._

John stood up, hand running over his face. "I wanted you not to be dead, Sherlock. You were the _center of my world_. Every day it was 'Make sure Sherlock eats', 'Make sure Sherlock sleeps', 'Make sure he doesn't blow up the kitchen'," John took a pause, cracking a sad, wobbly smile that made Sherlock frown. He wanted so badly to hold him, make him stop being sad. Sherlock very rarely allowed and never _desired_ physical contact with people, but he found John was always the exception to every rule he'd set in stone in his mind palace. "And then just like _that,_ you were _gone._ My whole life, _Sherlock._ It disappeared as soon as you stepped off that ledge." Sherlock was at a loss of words.

_Wait, no no no! Go back to being mad, John! I don't like you sad!_

"John, you have to understand. I never _ever_ wanted to hurt you like that. But it had to be done, or else you wouldn't be here right now, and I highly doubt I could live with myself if something were to happen to you. You know I'm not the best when it comes to these types of things, but you know I don't care for many people. I have to trust them explicitly, they have to earn it. And having said that I can't ask you to forgive me. I broke your trust, in so many ways, and I just- I need you to know that if you want nothing to do with me, you'll always be my best friend. The only friend I ever had, come to think of it. And I'll always be here if you need my help."

_But please don't._

"Want nothing to do with you, Sherlock? No. I'll admit, it crossed my mind, but the universe just gave me a second chance, sending you back here from the grave. And as _pissed_ as I still am with you, and I'll tell you, _I am._ I'm not throwing that away."

Sherlock couldn't help the smile that took over his face. He'd almost completely tuned out the still-pissed-at-him part, deciding to instead focus on the more important thing. "You mean you won't leave? Even when you get married?" John took another few steps forward before hissing, "If you _ever_ do that again, Sherlock, I'll push you off the roof myself." Sherlock didn't know if he could laugh until John did and Sherlock basked in the warmth of his open, beautiful, unadulterated laugh. 

_Fucking love was turning him into poet- and a sappy one at that._

Sherlock giggled and John came down to his level (Sherlock was still in his chair) and wrapped him in an awkwardly positioned hug. John was embracing him too tightly, but he couldn't be arsed to care, just glad to have John wrapped around him. "Never again, John, promise. Now- about that _hideous mole_ you call a mustache."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be the same meeting but from John's POV. Just to let you know what he was thinking. Tell me what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their meeting from John's POV.

Any nerves John had thought he'd gotten rid of returned full force as soon as he saw Sherlock's apprehensive-looking form on the sofa. He knew he would see him when he walked through the door, John _knew_ Sherlock would be there, but now that he actually _was,_ John felt frozen. Sherlock looked like shit, curls tangled and plastered with sweat to his forehead, dark circles under his eyes more visible than John had ever seen them. 

How is it that Sherlock, looking like the Walking Dead, could still look so maddeningly beautiful?

_No, no, John! Get yourself together! This isn't the time for that! There will never be a time for that!_

He was all too aware that he was staring for longer than was probably normal for an engaged, straight man, and Sherlock's crystal-like eyes were staring right back. 

"Hello," Sherlock's words sounded as if they were underwater, and John was only snapped out of his trance when Sherlock spoke up louder. "John?" Embarrassment flooded through John and he hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice. _Well, now that's just wishful thinking._ "Uh, sorry, yes, hi." John was used to Sherlock's analyzing gaze (even as long as he had gone without it), but Sherlock looked as if he were soaking in John's presence, and it made the heat in his face worse. _Universe, you fucker. What happened to this being easy?_

"Would you like something to drink? I could make some tea? Mine's gone cold."

Well, now that was new. Sherlock _never_ made the tea, when John lived there he would always end up badgering him or Mrs. Hudson into it. Regardless, John nodded, smiling reassuringly. Whether it was himself or Sherlock he was trying to comfort, he wasn't sure. 

His chair was right where he'd left it, and he sunk into it, the feeling so familiar it almost hurt. "So, uh, Sherlock, how have you been?" There was a thoughtful pause. "It's been.... _slow."_ Sherlock was obviously pulling his punches, and it was sort of touching that he was actually cutting back on his less than tactful behavior for him. John had half-expected for Sherlock to spout off his entire life as soon as he came in. John's laugh was involuntary.

"I noticed. You look like death, case withdrawal stage 3 or 4, I'd say," John was surprised by his own recollection, but he supposed he rarely forgot much where Sherlock was concerned. Sherlock gave him his tea, the man settling into his own spot. The silence they fell into was unavoidable.

"Do you want to know how?" _Bloody hell._ He knew Sherlock was thick but this was just on a whole new level. 

_"No, Sherlock,_ you git. I don't want to know _how_ , I want to know _why,"_ He slipped into his Captain's voice, the one that had made enemies tremble and answers tumble from interrogatee's lips. 

"Why? Because Moriarty had to be stopped." _You have got to be fucking kidding me._

"Oh, why as in- that's a little harder to explain." John settled back in his chair, crossing his arms and waiting for whatever shit was about to hit the fan.

"I've got all night," he could see the wheels working in Sherlock's brain, searching for an _appropriate_ response. _He'd better come up with a damn good one._

"Moriarty had snipers on you, John! Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade! What did you expect me to do?" _Well that's- oh._ John felt a bit of his anger leave him, trying to find a way in which he wasn't being an ungrateful arse. _He did it to protect you, you twat._ Even so, John was determined to hold on to his spiteful anger for as long as he could. Sherlock could still have told him after the fact, after all. 

"You could have told me you were alive, for starters!"

Sherlock was obviously becoming more frustrated with every passing second, upset with John for not coming to the obvious conclusion. 

"Don't you think I wanted to John? That I wanted to hear your voice after being surrounded by people that wanted me dead on a daily basis? You _couldn't_ know, John. Do you have any idea the kind of target that would put on your back? _All of you._ The kind of people that would want you dead?" John tried his best to come up with a viable reason that pissed him off. He was having trouble, though.

"You couldn't know, John. Not until I took down Moriarty's network."

John asked the first thing that popped up in his mind.

"Moriarty's dead?" The answer was clear, even to John, but he was trying desperately to keep his composure, and he was just buying himself time.

"Shot himself on the roof." John's anger was rapidly dissolving, and he couldn't lie: it was a relief. For the past two years, all he'd wanted was Sherlock to be home. And he was. He just didn't have it in him to be angry anymore.

John didn't realize he was even crying until he felt the cool liquid drip off his chin, momentarily ashamed of crying in front of a man who was disgusted by any and all emotion before deciding _no, fuck that._ He had every right to be emotional.

Before he could convince himself not to, he stood up on shaky legs, wiping furiously at his tears. 

"I wanted you not to be dead, Sherlock. You were the _center of my world_. Every day it was 'Make sure Sherlock eats', 'Make sure Sherlock sleeps', 'Make sure he doesn't blow up the kitchen'," he couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of this man, "And then just like _that,_ you were _gone._ My whole life, _Sherlock._ It disappeared as soon as you stepped off that ledge." He stared at Sherlock through tear-blurred vision.

"John, you have to understand. I never _ever_ wanted to hurt you like that. But it had to be done, or else you wouldn't be here right now, and I highly doubt I could live with myself if something were to happen to you. You know I'm not the best when it comes to these types of things, but you know I don't care for many people. I have to trust them explicitly, they have to earn it. And having said that I can't ask you to forgive me. I broke your trust, in so many ways, and I just- I need you to know that if you want nothing to do with me, you'll always be my best friend. The only friend I ever had, come to think of it. And I'll always be here if you need my help." Sherlock's words were sincere. John could tell, the tone was such a rarity when it came to the man that it was noticed right away. But his eyes were pleading, begging him not to take the out Sherlock just offered. 

For a moment John considered taking it, but he immediately crushed the thought. Sherlock came back from the dead, and John would be damned if he let himself lose him again. 

"Want nothing to do with you, Sherlock? No. I'll admit, it crossed my mind, but the universe just gave me a second chance, sending you back here from the grave. And as _pissed_ as I still am with you, and I'll tell you, _I am._ I'm not throwing that away."

Sherlock smiled so brightly you'd think John just gave him the Moon. "You mean you won't leave? Even when you get married?" Did Sherlock really think he'd do that? 

"If you _ever_ do that again, Sherlock, I'll push you off the roof myself." John's words were only half-serious, but when John laughed, so did Sherlock. It reminded him of their first case together, running home as they laughed together, still high on adrenaline and the ridiculousness of what they'd just done. Before he realized what he was doing he was wrapping Sherlock in his arms, grinning like a maniac, even though Sherlock couldn't see it. 

"Never again, John, promise. Now- about that _hideous mole_ you call a mustache."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sees one of Sherlock's scars. Sherlock's in denial about his P.T.S.D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this took so long, but I hope you enjoy (;

Their relationship slowly went back to normal over the days after their reconciliation. (Or as normal as it could be, John supposed.) Mary was happy because John was so happy, and he hadn't felt this much like himself since Sherlock faked his death. His limp had disappeared, and he and Sherlock had even done a case or two together. He shaved his mustache off. (Not because Sherlock didn't like it, of course, it just wasn't working for him.) Things looked like they were looking up for the first time in years. 

He could enjoy his practice again, not having to trudge through the day so painfully slowly anymore. It was no longer a chore, instead, something John took pride in again, helping people was both his day job and his side job, but of course, the side job had a little more murder involved. All the better, really. 

His coworkers would smile at him now and John would smile back, genuinely this time. 

Things were good. And if John tried really, really hard sometimes, he could almost forget _it_ had ever happened. 

He was beginning to find now, that not even that was his ideal world.

John would never admit it to himself, but he wished for Sherlock not to be married to his work, that he never left and that same fascination that had been centered on Irene Adler would be directed on him. He wished, and he hoped, and eventually, he thought _maybe under different circumstances_ and then banished the thoughts completely, and went back to sampling wedding cakes with Mary. 

However, he couldn't deny the low thrum of excitement in his veins when Sherlock texted him about a new case. He looked forward to it during the week, and John fell comfortably into a routine, even if it had only started a week and a half ago.

_Need you over here. Got a case, might pique your interest.-SH_

And just like that, he was turning to Mary with all the looks of a child asking for a cookie. "Go, go on. You know he won't take no for answer. Just let me know if it'll be an overnight, yeah?" John nodded excitedly, pecking her on the cheek before dashing out the door. 

_On my way.-JW_

He was being dropped off by the cab at Baker Street before he knew it. He didn't bother with knocking, knowing Mrs. Hudson was off on holiday, and he doubted Sherlock would bother answering. 

Sherlock was already pacing when John walked into the flat, talking with his hands as he rambled on. 

"I _know_ she killed him, John, I know it! Oh, but she's clever! Hundreds of people can verify her alibi, hundreds!" He was babbling, back turned to John. Unfazed and used to Sherlock's antics, he settled on the sofa comfortably.

"Maybe it's twins." 

Sherlock turned around so sharply you'd think John claimed himself to be the queen. "It's _never twins, John!"_

John's response died on his lips, his horrified gaze glued to the expanse of chest that the dressing gown exposed. The dark, jagged, raised slash of skin. 

"S-Sherlock, what is that?" It's a stupid question, he knows what it is, but he hopes there's a different explanation. An innocent one, an accident, some stupid experiment. He can't help the anger and disgust and _worry_ that hits his chest at all the more likely scenarios as to how that got there. 

Sherlock was confused, looking at John like he was a stupid goldfish. He _was_ , John thought, compared to Sherlock.

" _It's a scar, John. Stop saying stupid things_ ," His words are sharp and defensive, pulling the robe so it covers his skin. 

Sherlock continues on as if John never saw anything, going on about the case, though John's not really listening. 

He'd tried to bring it up, countless times. But Sherlock would deflect it, ignore him, or continue on as if John hadn't said anything. They hadn't talked about what happened after The Fall, and John never pushed, hoping that Sherlock would bring it up when he was ready. 

_Stupid_. The Holmes didn't talk about their feelings, at least not the brothers. He couldn't speak for Mycroft, but John should have known how Sherlock would deal with it. He'd stuff the memories in boxes, tuck them away in a locked room in his mind palace. Sherlock would keep it to himself. John was stupid to expect anything more.

"John?! _Damn it, are you even listening to me?_ You peoples' attention span! It's appalling!"

But Sherlock was avoiding it, and they both knew it. They simply couldn't beat around the bush any longer. 

"Sherlock, I understand if you don't want to talk to me, but _please_ , talk with someone? It helps, I promise."

" _Helps with what?"_ Sherlock spat, those sea glass eyes glaring at John with all he had in him. 

"P.T.S.D." John's voice is solemn in his own ears. He'd never thought he'd ever have to have a conversation like this with Sherlock, and it's heartbreaking.

Sherlock threw his hands in the air, a frustrated and exasperated laugh leaving him. "I don't _have_ P.T.S.D, John! And even if I did, _hypothetically,_ what would talking to someone who's still an idiot after years of higher education do to help!? This isn't even important! I requested your presence for a case, John, not to talk about non-existent _feelings!_ " 

It's a last-ditch effort, but Sherlock's expression is practically begging him to let it go, and John's about to give in. But a few moments pass in tense silence, and that's when Sherlock breaks. 

"John-please, I just- it hurts just to _think_ about it! You can't possibly expect me to-to-" Almost on pure instinct, John is at his side in an instant, rubbing soothing circles into his back. He knows if it were any other time, Sherlock would reject the contact, but he resigns himself to it now. He's never seen Sherlock so vulnerable and he can't possibly fathom how hard it must be for him. "It's okay, Sherlock. I just need you to know you can talk to me, alright? There's nothing wrong with you, it's perfectly normal. I understand, I really do. It doesn't have to be me, just talk with someone, okay? Just trust me." 

John can see the walls rebuilding themselves before his eyes, the stony barriers constructing around this hurt, vulnerable, _human_ man, and it hurts a little. It hurts that Sherlock thinks he needs to hide, that he thinks his emotions and pain are things to be ashamed of, that after all this time they've known each other that Sherlock thinks that he couldn't absolutely _break down_ in John's arms, and he'd be there to help him through it, always. 

John's never felt this way with Mary, the undeniable safety of Sherlock's presence, the way Sherlock could tell him to jump off a cliff and John would without skipping a beat because he trusted him with his life. The certainty that Sherlock would stick by his side through anything and everything, and vice versa. It's not something John wants to dissect too far.

"Well, then. If this positively horrific little heart to heart is over, I have a murder to solve!"

Sherlock jumps up from his chair and flings on his coat, but John still hasn't moved, looking at his best friend with a sad smile. 

"Well?! Are you coming or not? I'll explain in the cab since your tiny little brain can't seem to focus on one thing!"

He's unshaken in the face of Sherlock's insults because he knows they hold no real venom, that it's just a part of his former flatmate's bittersweet personality. He sighs in resignation. He hopes Sherlock would take his advice to talk with him, or anyone, when he was ready. But for now, he knows this is as far as he would get.

"So, where are we headed to, then?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really excited about this one! A rather big turn of events. Hope you enjoy (;

The case turned out to be less interesting than Sherlock had thought. It _was_ twins, as it turned out, ( _Ha, told you!)_ and it took less than 17 hours to make an arrest. Sherlock insisted he could have solved it faster had John not forced him to change into more 'suitable' clothes for going out in public. He was glad he didn't have enough room to spare in his overactive brain for such a ridiculous need to be accepted into society. People could take him or leave him. And frankly, he preferred that they leave him the fuck alone.

But John ended up badgering him into it anyway. 

They went their separate ways, and Sherlock dragged himself upstairs, exhausted. He hated how little willpower his vessel had, and how often he had to give in to its needs. He tripped on the foot of the bed, landing face-first in the comforters. Sherlock didn't have the physical motivation to move from his position, but he remained awake. Sleep had been rather fitful lately, but that was nothing new. He'd never slept much before, anyhow. 

John was being absurd. Sherlock Holmes wasn't susceptible to such illnesses. He knew how to deal with experiences, and he was dealing just fine. He should know, after all. Nobody knew him better than himself. _He_ knew he was fine, that's all that mattered.

So what if he had nightmares? Everyone had nightmares, Sherlock knew that. Especially him, what with all the data his brain needed to process on a daily basis. 

So what if the sight of a knife or a gun being pointed at him didn't give him the same rush anymore, opting instead to remind him of how it felt to have a knife slice between his ribs? Sherlock Holmes didn't get P.T.S.D. It was just that simple. 

As unappealing as moving seemed at that moment, he was still in the suit, and he really needed to breathe. Sherlock pushed himself back up again, stumbling out of his suit, and burying himself underneath the covers, he let out a content sigh. He felt floaty and high off sleep deprivation, even though he hadn't had too many cases lately. He'd been avoiding sleep and therefore avoiding nightmares (which were just a coincidence, of course), and kept himself awake with cold showers and truly alarming amounts of tea, waiting until his body absolutely demanded that he take a rest. And while the nightmares did take a big part in that, sure, it also didn't help that John was with Mary tonight, happy and snug in their little bubble of domestic bliss.

So, yeah, needless to say, Sherlock's main struggle right now was _functioning._

And do you wanna what the _worst_ part was? Mary was perfect for John. She was everything that Sherlock wasn't. Kind, warm, loving. Everything that John deserved. And, okay, yeah, maybe it helped a little that she was a woman. 

Despite his exhaustion, sleep did not come easily.

..........

John woke up alone. It wasn't a surprise really, it was his and Mary's shared day off and he probably just slept longer. He pulled on his dressing-gown against the chilly air.

"Mary?" The loo was empty, along with the kitchen. He shrugged it off.

_Had to go to the store, then._

He started making himself a nice, strong cup of tea, still half-dazed with sleep. He heard his phone ring on the nightstand, and he threw his head back and groaned. _Sherlock._ No one else would call him on his day off. Probably wanted John to get him some milk or something. Sometimes John felt like he was raising the man. Nonetheless, he knew that if it was Sherlock, he wouldn't stop calling until John paid attention to him. Besides, it may be important. 

The number wasn't Sherlock's, but that didn't mean anything. He hardly ever used his own.

"Watson."

And that's when it all went wrong.

"John, we need you at Royal London Hospital, _now."_ John's stomach plummeted all at once, a rock of worry the size of a baseball lodged in his throat. He forced his voice steady as he pulled on his clothes with shaky hands.

"Greg, what's happened?" 

"Mrs. Hudson found Sherlock shot in his room this morning. He's in surgery, and Molly and I are doing our best with Mrs. Hudson, but she's a mess, John."

John felt bile rise up in his throat.

"I-I'll be there in a few."

John was on autopilot, getting a cab and barking the address at the driver before he even knew what he was doing. 

_This isn't fair! I just got him back! I can't do this again, I can't. I can't live through this again, I can't live without him again._

Angry, hot tears streamed down his face and onto his jumper. _You can't die, Sherlock. You can't. You're not fucking allowed to. Not again._

He practically threw the money at the cab driver. _No one's allowed to take you from me. No one._

"I'm here for Sherlock Holmes." 

"Yes, you must be Mr. Watson. Mr. Holmes has taken over one of the waiting rooms. This way, please." The nurse was so calm, so poised, and John felt anger bubble up inside of him. _Sherlock's dying! Again!_ _How is the world not falling apart?!_

And then there was Mr. Holmes. _Mycroft. This morning is just getting better and better!_

He was left inside a room filled with the sniffling and sobbing of Mrs. Hudson and the shouts of the older Holmes. 

"I don't _care_ if the monitoring devices were removed! Traffic cameras, security cams at the cafe! _Hell, I don't care if you have to use a damn satellite!_ I want this woman found!" It was the most distressed John had ever seen Mycroft, and while it was unsettling, he was glad he wasn't the only one seething with anger. "Woman? How do you know it's a woman?" All heads snapped up at once, even Mycroft stopped his pacing, everyone just now noticing his arrival. John knew he probably looked like hell, hair tussled, face red, and a few stray alligator tears making their way down his face. He couldn't have cared less. _Sherlock. He's all that matters right now._

"Oh, John, I'm so glad you're here!" His former landlady launched herself at him, wrapping him in a hug so tight he was genuinely worried about circulation. He rubbed her back as she sobbed into his chest, resisting the urge to break down along with her. _No. Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock need me strong._ Greg and Molly looked how John felt, broken and angry and helpless. 

Meanwhile, Mycroft prattled off his explanation. He looked different, less regal and posh and 'I am the British Government' and more like a big brother who's scared shitless. John didn't know Mycroft that well, but he knew that whenever Sherlock was upset, deductions and showing off made him feel better.

"Based on the way the bullet entered, the shooter was at least a head shorter than him. Many men are short, but that paired with the Clair de Lune I detected at the crime scene, I'd say yes, our shooter is female."

_Clair de Lune._

_Isn't that what Mary uses? Shit. Mary. He needed to call, she'd be worried._

John managed to pry himself from Mrs. Hudson's grip enough to sit them both down in the hard plastic chairs.

"I need to call Mary, I f-forgot, she was gone when I left." 

She gave a wobbly smile. "Of course, dear." 

John almost stabbed her number into his phone. Straight to voicemail.

_Weird. Maybe her phone's dead._

"Do we have any suspects?"

Greg answered, Mycroft not even seeming like he heard him. "We know Sherlock had more than his fair share of enemies, but I checked, and none of the people he put away over the years have gotten out recently. Any of his current enemies wouldn't have waited this long."

"It's Moriarty," Mycroft piped up, his gaze so terrifying and filled with rage, that John could now understand why people found him so intimidating.

"Sherlock said he killed himself."

" _His network,"_ He corrected John sternly, "Sherlock thought he killed it, but he said there had been rumors that Moriarty had a partner. He investigated but found nothing, and declared the rumors to be bogus."

"You think he was wrong?"

"I think Sherlock may have missed a spot or two when he was cleaning up Moriarty's mess. They would have needed time to plan the attack."

_Moriarty,_ John thought as his fists balled up so tight that his fingernails dug into his skin, _The gift that keeps on giving._

"So what's the plan?"


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft scoffs at him. " _Plan?_ If you're implying that you will be partaking in the resolution of this... _debacle,_ you are mistaken." John has never wanted anything more than to see Mycroft's hooked nose broken and bleeding. " _Of course I am!"_ His tone leaves no room for discussion or negotiation but the Holmes' had never been good at picking up on social cues. "I cannot justify a civilian doctor getting himself inevitably killed for the sake of revenge. Sherlock would have my head."

John opened his mouth, ready to argue his heart out, but Molly, who had been rather quiet and tearful, spoke up. 

"He's right, John. Getting yourself killed will do nothing to help Sherlock right now. Sherlock needs you here. Besides, God knows the doctors won't be able to keep him in bed by themselves." Mrs. Hudson and Greg hastily agreed.

John was pissed but had to remind himself that it was not because of any of these people. Mycroft and Molly were probably right. Sherlock would kill John himself if he managed to survive. It didn't make it any easier, though.

"Okay, _fine._ But I want to be notified every step of the way, is that clear?" Mycroft pulled a smile that was probably sympathetic, in his own twisted way.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Doctor Watson."

* * *

_1 hour 30 minutes earlier_

Sherlock, by nature, was a deep sleeper. However, his subconscious was exceptionally good at waking him up when real danger presented itself. So when his eyes flew open in the pitch black, he knew he wasn't alone. He groaned into his pillow.

"Could you perhaps come back at a reasonable hour? I'm too tired to deal with the insipid criminal class's shit at the moment."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the silence, sitting up in bed and pulling the lamp string. He squinted into the still dim lighting, the shiny metal of a silencer glinting dangerously. 

"Ugh. _Dull._ "

"Well, hello to you too, Sherlock." 

The first thing he thinks about is that smiling blond angel that he thought was the best thing for John. This Mary is different. She has a lethal smirk on her face, sharp teeth looking almost vampire-like in the dark. The dark pupils of her eyes make him think of the dead man who almost made him lose John. And at that moment, he knew. He knew he made a mistake. _Stupid. I should have seen it! How did I not see it?!_

**_Liar_**

**_Liar_**

**_Liar_**

**_LIAR_**

"He'll find you." Mary brings a hand to her chest in mock fright.

" _Who?_ Big brother, or the good doctor? I suppose it doesn't matter, really. The people I work for are much more powerful than your brain can comprehend."

"Don't be _stupid_. Your purpose is to kill me. Once you have served your task, your employers will have no further use for you."

Mary gestured to the gun. "I wouldn't be worrying about me, if I were you, Sherlock."

And Sherlock's terrified. Not for himself. His heart was thundering with fear for John, who was so vulnerable when it came to this woman. That if Sherlock dies, he will be left open and weak for this... this.. _hyena_ to pick him apart. That if Sherlock dies, John will have no one to warn him of this woman who holds his life in her palm. And Mary knows it. "Oh, don't worry Sherly, I'll _take care of John when you're gone."_

He slowly stands until he's looking down at her. "John's not stupid. He'll beat you. He's stronger than you think."

She leans in a little, false sweetness oozing from her smile. "Well, I'll guess we'll see then, won't we?"

Sherlock's been shot before. He'd built up a sort of pain tolerance, but the excruciating pain that hits his chest is worse than anything he's ever experienced. Because the idea that John may have to meet the same fate is almost too much to bear. _No. I can't let that happen._

And then he's running through his mind palace, feeling as if he's running underwater. 

_Molly. He has to find Molly._

_"It’s not like it is in the movies. There’s not a great big spurt of blood and you go flying backwards."_

_Yes, I know, I know that! Tell me something I don't! Help me!_

There's a flash and Sherlock is standing in a bright white morgue, pain momentarily forgotten with the need to stay alive.

_"It's tightly focused, so there's little or no energy transfer."_

" _You stay still, and the bullet pushes through."_

Her face steels.

" _You're almost certainly going to die, so we need to focus."_

_But I'm tired, so fucking tired. Five more minutes, Molly, five more minutes._

The blow of her slap is unexpected and he gasps, eyes snapping open as he tries to reel in his mind.

He's back in his bedroom, Mary's unconcerned face glaring up at him. _No, no, back! I need her help!_

_"I said.."_

And she's there, and Sherlock tears his eyes away from Mary's terrifyingly expressionless gaze.

**"** _ **Focus!"**_ His eyes burn from the sudden change in the bright white lighting, the sting of her slap still fresh on his face.

He's in a mortuary, that much is clear, his own dead body laid out on a slab. _That's not real. I can't let it become real._

" _It's all well and clever having a mind palace, but you've only three seconds of consciousness left to use it. So come on, what's going to kill you?"_

He glanced down at his body. Missed his heart, obviously, didn't hit a lung or he'd be coughing up blood. Could've hit one of his abdominal arteries, though.

" _Blood loss."_

Molly looks at him, intense and determined. _"Exactly."_

He frowns at her a little, she's so different from real Molly, who's shy and sweet and stern when she wants to be. But it's not real Molly, it's his brain trying to keep him alive. Funny, how it chose Molly to be his helper. But Molly can stay focused, can set aside personal feelings and focus on the task ahead. If anyone can keep him alive, it's Molly. Molly's his friend. Molly's safe. 

" _So it's all about one thing, now. Forwards or backwards?"_

He's nauseous and dizzy, swaying slightly and he closes his eyes to center himself. 

When Sherlock opens his eyes, he's back in his room, Mary gone and his breathing heavy and loud. 

_"We need to decide which way you're going to fall."_

Molly appears on the other side of the room, and he can feel Anderson's presence behind him. _Just excellent,_ he thinks bitterly, but then decides he'll need all the help he can get. 

" _One hole, or two?"_

Sherlock turns and glares at Anderson.

" _Sorry?"_

Anderson raises his eyebrows to indicate that he's being an idiot for once.

_"Is the bullet still inside you, or is there an exit wound?"_ He turns back to Molly.

_"It'll depend on the gun,"_ His eyes fill with diagrams of various guns, franticly trying to recognize the model.

_Cat-0208?_

_"That one, I think."_

_Cat-077839?_

_"Or that one."_

_No, no, no! Think, Sherlock, think!_

_"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock,"_ The deep, posh voice of his brother rings in his ears. 

Sherlock turns to see Mycroft sitting at his desk, looking bored and annoyed simultaneously.

_"It doesn't matter about the gun. Don't be stupid."_ It sounds like a real scolding, like Mycroft's telling him not to dip into the cookie jar.He slowly approached his big brother, deciding that once again, any help can't hurt. Not even from his rhinoceros of a brother. 

" _You always were so stupid."_

Sherlock balls up his fists, holding back the urge to argue with the fictitious version of Mycroft.

_Focus._

"Such _a disappointment."_

Sherlock's younger self can't hold back the familiar impulse to defy him.

" _I'm not stupid!"_

Mycroft rolls his eyes and Sherlock shoots him a glare.

_"You're a very stupid little boy."_

Mycroft slowly approached him from around the table, and Sherlock wants to yell at him to get to the point. _There are more important things at stake here than foolish rivalry!_

_"Mummy and Daddy are very cross..."_

Sherlock's annoyed stare doesn't waver.

_"Because it doesn't matter about the gun."_

He frowns up in confusion at Mycroft. _What is he on about?_

 _"Why not?"_ His big brother smiles, amused and condescending.

_"It's your bedroom, Sherlock. What was directly behind you when you were murdered?"_

Sherlock pouts up at him.

" _I've not been murdered yet."_

Mycroft sneers down at him. " _Balance of probability, little brother."_

The alarm blares _painfully_ loud in his ears as he turns around, looking at the large mirror on top of his dresser. " _If the bullet had passed through you, what would you have heard?"_

_"The mirror shattering."_

_"And you didn't. So, therefore...?"_

Sherlock walks past him, glancing down at the wound.

" _The bullet's still inside me."_

Anderson speaks from behind him. _"So we need to take him down backwards."  
_

Molly nods decisively in agreement. " _I agree. Sherlock..."_

Sherlock turns his attention back to her. " _You need to fall on your back."_

They both circle around him. " _Right now, the bullet is the cork in the bottle."_

Molly's voice is coming from somewhere around him now, " _The bullet itself is blocking most of the blood flow."_

Anderson maintains eye contact when he finally rounds in front of him. " _But any pressure or impact on the entrance wound could dislodge it."_

 _"Plus, on your back, gravity's working for us."_ Molly takes on a stern expression. " _Fall now."_

He readies himself, letting himself lose footing as he falls back. He stumbles, finding himself back in the bright mortuary room. The alarm cries out, a never-ending screaming in his ears and he covers them desperately, falling against the cabinets.

" _What the hell is that?! What's happening?!"_ His body slides out of one of the containers and he stares at it in terrified horror. Molly looks at him calmly from the other side. 

_"You're going into shock, it's the next thing that's going to kill you."_

Sherlock wants to scream, to vomit.

" _What do I do?"_

The image of Mycroft stares back at him. _Why can't he just go away?! I want John!_

_"Don't go into shock, obviously."_

He shoots Mycroft a disbelieving glare.

" _Must be something in this ridiculous memory palace of yours that can calm you down."_

Sherlock stares up at his serious face.

" _Find it."_

He runs down the staircase as Mycroft's voice echoes down. " _The east wind is coming, Sherlock."_

_"It's coming to get you."_

Sherlock throws open a door, to be met with the deadly stare of the barrel of a gun as it's shot rings out. Sherlock screams and falls back, wishing for nothing more to wake up now, away from this nightmare, where he's not dying and John's not in danger. 

_"Find it."_

Before he can even ponder giving up he's in another corridor, the sight of his childhood dog warming his heart. 

_"Hello, Redbeard! Here, boy. Come on!"_

He beckons the beautiful animal, the one he still loved with all his heart, the one he cried for months over as a child. Sherlock can't help but smile gleefully at him.

_"Come to me. It's okay, it's alright."_

" _Come on, it's me, it's me, come on!"_ His dog runs towards him happily, barking as he trots. " _Come on!"_

 _"Good boy, clever boy!"_ Sherlock giggles at the dog as he licks his face, petting his beloved dog in delight.

" _Hello, Redbeard. They're putting me down too, now. It's no fun, is it?"_ He lets out a pained sigh, a fresh wave of debilitating nausea sweeping over him.

" _Redbeard,"_ he says weakly as he falls back on the ground. _No, I want to stay with you._

_"Without the shock, you're going to feel the pain."_

_"There's a hole ripped through you, massive internal bleeding."_

Sherlock convulses and spasms, a scream ripping itself out of him, face contorted in agony.

" _You have to control the pain."_ He wants to shout at her, wants to hit something, shoot the wall. _That's easy for you to say._

He struggles to upright himself, fumbling over his own feet as he runs down the stairs. He bangs open the door, body falling against the padded wall. 

" _Control! Control! Control."_

Sherlock stares at the crumpled form of Moriarty in the corner, eyes red and teeth gritted in pain. " _You."_

_"You never felt pain, did you? Why did you never feel pain?"_

The monster's head slowly turns towards him, the creases in his face filled with dirt. 

_"You always feel it, Sherlock."_ Jim's voice is quiet and yet so very lethal, the calm before the storm.

Sherlock startles slightly when Moriarty's face is suddenly inches from him, the straight-jacket clad figure snapped to a halt by his chain. 

_"But you don't have to fear it!"_ Sherlock stumbles and does his best to regain his footing as he falls to his knees, and eventually slumps against the floor.

" _Pain. Heartbreak. Loss,"_ His body began to shake once again, painful tears burning his eyes.

" _Death. It's all good."_ Moriarty kneels beside him, smiling manically.

" _It's all good."_

* * *

"Sherlock! Dear, are you all right? I thought I heard a bang," Mrs. Hudson called as she opened the door, expecting to see Sherlock leaning over his microscope. The kitchen was empty. "Sherlock?" Maybe he was finally getting some sleep. Lord knew he needed it. But that thump didn't come from her flat... and, well, it couldn't hurt to check on him. "Yoo-hoo! Sherlock! You in there?" She slowly opened the bedroom door, a sickening feeling of nervousness forming in her gut. Something was wrong. 

She screamed, dropping the tray of tea on the floor, ceramic shattering when she saw the bloody, convulsing form of Sherlock on the floor. "S-Sherlock! Oh my God!" She dropped to the floor beside him, fumbling with her cardigan as she pulled it off, eyes blurring with tears ready to fall. Martha pressed the cardigan against the wound with as much pressure as she could manage, using her other hand to shakily dial 999. "Emergency. Which service do you require?"

* * *

" _It's raining, it's pouring, Sherlock is boring,"_ the soft, eery voice of Jim Moriarty barely reaches Sherlock's ears as he tried to stave off the pain.

" _I'm laughing_ _, I'm crying, Sherlock is dying,"_ Sherlock can feel his brain slowly losing its will, a floating feeling overcoming him. _John, John, John. I hope I don't see a ghost you over there any time soon._

* * *

_"_ We're losing him! Sherlock, stay here with me, okay? Can you hear me?" Mrs. Hudson watches the paramedics work in horror, sitting on the bed, tears streaming down her face. "You have to save, him! Do you hear me, young man? You _have_ to!"

* * *

_"Come on, Sherlock. Just die, why don't you?" Because of John._ _That's why_ some barely heard voice in the back of his head whispers. _Because of John._

_"One little push, and off you pop."_

* * *

"I'm sorry, ma'am, he's gone. Nothing we can do for him," Martha lets out a heart-wrenching sob, curling in on herself. _Again. Why did it have to happen again? It's not fair!_

* * *

" _You're gonna love being dead, Sherlock. No one ever bothers you."_

" _Mrs. Hudson will cry, and Mummy and Daddy will cry, and The Woman will cry, and John will cry buckets and buckets! It's him that I worry about the most. That_ girlfriend!" Sherlock wants so badly to let go. But he's barely clinging to this hallucination as it is, and he's worried he's already dead. 

_"You're letting him down, Sherlock. John Watson is definitely in danger."_ Sherlock's eyes snap open, sighing in pain as he attempts to push himself up off the filthy floor. _John!_

" _Oh, you're not getting better, are you?"_ Sherlock ignores him, staggering to the wall.

" _Was it something I said, huh?"_ Moriarty smiles at him devilishly, and Sherlock gives a fiery glare in return. _This is your fault._

Sherlock shoves himself off of the wall, groaning in pain as he throws the door open.

_"John!"_

 _" **Sherlock!"**_ Jim screeches behind him as Sherlock weakly pulls himself up the stairs, groaning in anguish. 

* * *

"H-He has a pulse!" One of the paramedics yell and Martha's head shoots up.

"What? That- That's not possible!" The other checked for himself, and immediately started where they left off. 

"He's back! We need to get him to the hospital, _now."_ Mrs. Hudson still sobbed, but a wobbly smile made its way onto her face.

"Oh thank God! Thank God!"

Sherlock's sea glass orbs opened abruptly, a barely-there word leaving his lips.

"Mary."


	10. Chapter 10

The waiting room was quiet, Mrs. Hudson asleep on John's shoulder and Greg looked like he might be ready to nod off too. If it were another time, John might make an old joke, but the fear and anger were still pulsing through his veins. Mycroft had finally settled into another hard chair, which looked deceivingly comfortable. The older Holmes had made a few calls and seemed to have reined in his anger. 

Mary had to be wondering where he was by now, but she wasn't answering her phone (Perhaps it fell in the loo or something), and John didn't want to leave Sherlock or wake Mrs. Hudson. The poor woman had sobbed until she wore herself out. 

"Mycroft?" John whisper hissed across the room.

"Yes?" Mycroft asked, now directing his attention at John instead of the nothingness that had apparently seemed so very interesting.

"Mary wasn't there when I left, and she's not answering her phone. I would go get her, but I don't want to wake Mrs. Hudson. Could you send a car or something?"

Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh. "Yes, yes, fine. Of course." John thought about giving him the address but thought, _ah fuck it, he probably already knows._ Mycroft seemed more amiable, too emotionally exhausted to be brash, John thought.

They all looked up when the door opened, hoping to see a doctor, and they all deflated a little when they saw it was just Molly with the coffee. "Still no news, then?" John shook his head. She sighed in dismay, passing around their beverages. John sipped it gratefully, he could use a little pick me up. Martha got up to take hers, sending Molly a weak, warm smile. "Mrs. Hudson, are you sure you don't want to go home and get some rest? I'll call you if there's any news before you get up," Martha sighed and smiled up at him. "Perhaps it would be best. You promise to call me?" John nodded. "Of course." 

"Come on, I'll help you get a cab," Greg stood and made to walk out with her. "No need, Detective Inspector, I have a car waiting out front." Greg nodded but left with her all the same. John shot Mycroft a suspicious look. "You think they're in danger, don't you?" Holmes shrugged noncommittally. "If my suspicions are correct, I suspect that Moriarty's orders, should Sherlock live, consisted of much more than just 'kill Sherlock'. He was going to kill all three of you, remember? I don't want to take any chances here." John sighed, sinking deeper into his chair. 

"I was really hoping all this Moriarty shit was over." Molly snorted humourlessly. "Wishful thinking, apparently," she mumbled and John took another sip of his coffee. Mycroft looked down at his phone, eyes furrowed. "It seems your fiance still hasn't made it home." John ran an overwhelmed hand through his hair. "Well, this is just bloody fantastic! Sherlock's on the brink of death and my fiance is missing! Just perfect," Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "It is quite a coincidence, indeed. But the universe is rarely so lazy, Dr. Watson. You said she wasn't there when you left? What time did she leave exactly?" 

_Boy, if looks could kill._ "What are you implying, Mycroft?" The man put his hands up briefly in defense. "I don't know yet, but don't you find it the least bit peculiar that she's disappeared around the time of the shooting? I ask again, what time did she leave?" John huffed, teeth gritted, hands balled into fists, but answered all the same.

"She-She was gone when I woke up. I thought she had to go to the store or something," Mycroft stiffened. 

" _Perfume?"_

 _"Sorry?"_ Mycroft's icy stare was making him anxious. Out of the corner of his eye, Molly looked at the two of them in nervousness. She looked as if she were ready to break up a fight.

"What kind of perfume does she use, John?" 

"She's not a suspect, Mycroft."

"Then let's rule her out, shall we?" John couldn't explain what it was that kept him from strangling the man on the spot. 

"C-Clair de Lune." Mycroft stood abruptly.

"I need to go. Thank you for the coffee, Ms. Hooper. Call me when he gets out, John." John spluttered as Mycroft walked out the door. Mycroft couldn't _possibly_ think Mary had anything to do with this, could he?

As if hearing his thoughts, Molly spoke up next to him. "He has a point, you have to admit. I'm not saying she did it, John. But you can't blame Mycroft. The man doesn't believe in coincidences, and yours seem to pile up." 

John sighed, frustration oozing from his every pore. "It wasn't Mary, I know it wasn't. I just- I can't think of where she could have gone." Molly sighed, patting him comfortingly on the shoulder. "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. Just try not to kill Mycroft, eh? His brother's life is dangling on a string. He's just as pissed as the rest of us." 

He smiled at her. "You're staying, right?" Molly nodded, drinking her coffee. "Someone's gotta keep an eye on you," she teased lightly, elbowing him in the side. 

* * *

_"_ Any news?" Anthea asked when Mycroft slid in the car, looking calm and regal to the untrained eye, but she could tell he was fuming. 

"Nothing yet, I'm afraid. I want you to find everything you can on Mary Morstan. Dig into her past. I also need to find her, regardless."

"Yes, of course, Sir," He nodded curtly, eyes staring blankly ahead. "Wait, did you say Morstan? Dr. Watson's fiance?" Mycroft nodded, face stoic. "Precisely. I need to have a word with her."

* * *

"Family of Sherlock Holmes?" John and Molly nodded instantly, knowing the doctor wouldn't tell them anything if they weren't relatives. Molly looked like she could throw up from pure nervousness, and John pulled her into his side, smiling at her reassuringly, despite the fear coiling in his gut. "I'm Dr. Williams. Mr. Holmes is out of surgery, but you need to know he isn't out of the woods yet. The bullet hit his hepatic artery, and there's no telling how long it had been until he was found. The fact that he even survived such a catastrophic amount of blood loss is a miracle. He's stable and in the ICU, but internal bleeding is still a very real possibility." John and Molly each let out breaths of relief despite that the doctor told them not to get their hopes up.

"Can we see him?" The doctor shook his head, a sympathetic smile twisting his pale lips.

"Sorry, we believe it best for him to get his rest right now. He's on loads of painkillers, so he probably won't be conscious for quite some time. I'll let you know when he's available for visiting."

Williams left, leaving the worry ridden pair to themselves. "I guess I better let everyone know, yeah?"

* * *

Mycroft almost dropped his phone in his haste when it rang. "Holmes," His voice was tight with concern, and he was disgusted with his sudden inability to hide his emotions. 

"He's out and in the ICU. We can't see him yet, but I knew you'd want to know," Mycroft's worry monster became slightly less hostile, but he knew that whatever scraps of Moriarty's web was left wouldn't stop until their target was eliminated. 

"Yes, thank you Dr. Watson."

"Have you uh, have you found Mary?"

"You won't want to hear this from me, John."

"I'm sure whatever news you have wouldn't feel good coming from anyone."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. My people and I did some research. There is no Mary Morstan, John. Her records only date back three years, and we suspect she acquired the name from a stillborn child. We're actively searching, and we'll know more when Sherlock wakes up." 

Mycroft waited for the information to sink in, idly rubbing his forehead in an effort to relieve the tension headache.

"You-You're _sure_ about this, you're _positive?_ " The naked anger in the Captain's voice was something he could relate to, even if he didn't show it.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I am. We're looking for any associates now. She couldn't have done this alone."

"Bye Mycroft," The Doctor's voice was cracking and Mycroft winced. "I-I'll let you know when he wakes up."

* * *

"John?" His ears felt as if they were stuffed with cotton, the last brick in his composure crumbling. "John! What is it, what's the matter? You're red as a tomato!" John wanted to smash something, to see something burn, to watch his and Mary's flat and all the lies it represented go up in flames. He wanted it to be over. All of it. Lies, mourning, worry, fear. The one person who helped him through the death of Sherlock Holmes was the one who almost took him away again. This was his fault. It was _his_ fault that he let that lie into his life, that he was so blinded by his need to be wanted again that he couldn't see what was right in front of him. It was _his_ fault that Mary (Or whoever the fuck she was) had put Sherlock in the ICU. 

It was his fault. And that was unacceptable.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of protective Mycroft in this one! hope you enjoy (;

Sherlock's happy when he wakes. He doesn't quite recall what happened yet, all that he knows is that he's high, and _hell yes._

He's in a stiff bed, scratchy wool of a hospital blanket around his shoulders. His excitement about the feeling of drugs in his veins dims considerably at the sudden flood of memories that come back to haunt him. "Sherlock Holmes, glad to see you're awake. How are you feeling?" Sherlock glares at the doctor for all he is worth.

_I've been shot, John's in danger, and you have the audacity to ask me how I'm feeling?_

 _"John,"_ his voice came out cruel and frigid.

"Sorry?"

" _John Watson._ I know you've talked to him. I need to speak to him. _Now,"_ The doctor looks to him and back to the clipboard in his hands.

"I apologize, Mr. Holmes, but we really need this information. Just relax and-"

"I wasn't asking. Either you get him in here, or I tell the wife about the girlfriend in Winchester. Or perhaps even about the triplets you're expecting." The doctor's eyes widened and he set down his things with shaky fingers and fled out the door. Sherlock sighed, settling back into his bed, grimacing at the ghost of pain in the wound. He'd have to eventually talk to Mycroft of course, but John was all he wanted to see right now.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when he walked through the door. He was at Sherlock's bedside in a split second. 

"Shit, I'm so sorry Sherlock. I didn't know. I should've known."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. So he must know about Mary, then. _Mycroft must have found out._

"Don't you dare apologize to me, John. I won't allow it."

John held his head in his hands, and Sherlock felt something strange bubble up in his chest. "None of this is your fault, John. _None."_

He nodded, looking up at Sherlock with red-rimmed eyes. "Y-Yeah. I know. I'm still sorry though." Sherlock frowned, puzzled. John smiled at him.

"I'm really glad you're okay, Sherlock. You gave us all quite the scare," and Sherlock instantly cringed.

"How many people are in the waiting room, John?" John chuckled wryly. "Just Molly, but I expect Mrs. Hudson and Greg are on their way back. Probably Mycroft too."

Sherlock glared. "Greg?" John ran a hand through his hair and laughed, and Sherlock squinted in confusion. "Lestrade! For the love of God, Sherlock, I think you're doing it on purpose now," He rolled his eyes in annoyance. "It's not my fault his name is so forgettable."

"What about me? Millions of blokes are named John."

"That's different."

"Why's that?"

"It just- it- it just is!" 

_Because you're special. Because you're the only person I've ever met that's able to capture my attention and interest for more than two minutes. Because you're different._

John's eyebrows furrowed in a perplexed expression, and Sherlock _really_ hoped he hadn't just slipped up. He was saved from whatever John was about to say by the rest of the party. "There should really only be one person at a ti-" Greg smiled at the gentleman on the other side of the door and said, "Yes, thank you, fuck off," before closing the door in his face.

"How are you feeling, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked softly and Sherlock rolled his eyes out of habit. "I'm not dead, Mrs. Hudson! I won't break if you speak like a normal person." 

John chided him with his eyes, but Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Glad you're feeling like yourself, Sherlock," She giggled as she sat down. 

Lestrade and Mycroft's expression held relief, and Molly gave him a small smile. 

"Just for the sake of clarity, can you tell us who the shooter was?" It was Mycroft, who was leaning on his irritatingly familiar umbrella. 

"Mary," John visibly shrunk in on himself, (Sherlock would have to fix that later) "Have you located her?" Greg and Mycroft shook their heads simultaneously. "But we have located one of her accomplices. He's being interrogated as we speak. We should know her whereabouts soon enough," Mycroft said matter of factly.

"Excellent. Now can someone see about getting me out of this truly repulsive hospital gown and into something more substantial? The bloody morons cut my shirt open."

Barely stifled giggles from everyone but Mycroft sounded around the room. Sherlock shot them all unamused glares. "I'll have someone pick up some of your clothes at your flat. You will all have a protective detail on you until this matter is resolved." 

There were minor groans all around the room but no one disagreed.

"And how long until I'm discharged?"

"You'll stay here until you're well enough for transport. I'll make sure Dr.Watson sees to that. Apologies, but I have a meeting I need to attend. Feel better, little brother."

* * *

"He says he's ready to talk," Mycroft smiles tightly at his assistant. "Fantastic, Anthea. I'll be back shortly," He straightens his suit before strolling into the warehouse, nodding at the guards on the way in. He slid into the chair across from the bloody and bruised man. "Ajay, is it? I believe you have some information for me," They did nothing but glare at each other for a few solid moments before he spoke. 

"Her real name's Rosamund."

"I'm sure you can do better than that." Ajay rolled his eyes, but Mycroft didn't waver.

"We had an agreed rendezvous point for extraction after she finished the job." _But she didn't._ And Mycroft could never be more grateful for that.

"Well, are you going to enlighten me?"

"I want my survival guaranteed." Mycroft scoffed at him, leaning over him now.

"You're going to tell me everything you know and then some. And then- _maybe,_ if I'm feeling _very_ generous, you'll leave here with your vital organs still intact, only to be thrown in a hole so dark you won't even know you're not dead. I want a location, and I want it _now."_

_.........._

It was a shady little place on the corner of the block, the street quiet and Mycroft stood alone, gun tucked against his side. It'd been a while since he'd done any legwork, but he was insistent that he handle this on his own. 

He entered on light feet, inspecting floorboards to make sure they didn't creak. "Hello, Mycroft," Her tone was jovial, back turned to him and facing the telly. 

"You're coming with me."

"Oh, Big Brother, I don't think I am." She turned around to smile at him, teeth and all. "Come, sit." He stood as still as a statue, gun cocked and finger a hair away from the trigger. "Forgive me, Rosamund, but I think I'm fine where I am."

"You have a strong moral principle, Mycroft. Do you really think you'll be able to do it?" 

"Certainly. If I don't you'll kill my brother- _really_ kill him - and I'd lose him forever and I will _never_ let that happen."

"Now, _that's_ interesting. Are you really sure he'd do the same for you?" Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"His resentment towards me changes nothing. He's still my brother. And I'll do anything and everything in my power to protect him." Her eery smile slowly faded as the gunshot went off, blood slowly dripping down her forehead as her body slumped against the sofa. Mycroft immediately turned and left, dialing Anthea's number.

"It's done. Send a crew."

* * *

John watched Sherlock as he slept, face peaceful and angelic. It reminded him of mornings in their flat, making tea while Sherlock passed out on the couch. It was mornings like those that made him question himself, blaming the need to snuggle up beside him on his sleep-deprived brain. 

Don't get him wrong, he's been with men before. But that was in the army, when he was desperate enough for a leg over or a hot mouth. When there wasn't another option.

And now Mary didn't exist, never did really, either dead or in a hole somewhere (John couldn't really bring himself to care either way). And John could still come up with a million reasons for why this could never happen. 

Sherlock was his best friend. He couldn't ruin that.

Sherlock was asexual. (Or, at least, John was pretty sure.)

And John wasn't gay.

Okay, maybe it was only three, but you get the point. 

" _Stop thinking!"_ John jumped in surprise. 

"I thought you were sleeping!"

"You should know it better than anyone that I am the master at faking it." And it's true, he was. John couldn't count how many times he'd told Sherlock to get some rest (and find him later sprawled out on the sofa) only to find him shooting at the walls an hour later. 

"I'm sorry about Mary, John. You shouldn't blame yourself. Even I couldn't see it." 

"I know."

"So, what were you so deep in thought about? I don't think I've ever seen your brain work so actively."

"You couldn't see! Your eyes were closed!" _Also, please don't make me come up with something, because I definitely can't tell you what I was thinking about._

"Irrelevant. Answer the question."

Sherlock's sea glass orbs stared at him as if he could see into the very depths of John's soul. _Oh shit. Does he know? He can't possibly know!_ But he always thought Sherlock could read his mind, and it used to be unsettling, but now it was terrifying. 

"Just about- well, Mary, you know." John hoped that would be enough for Sherlock to drop the subject.

"You're lying, John. What is it you don't think you can tell me?"

"Don't worry about it."

"But I already am."

John tried to read him. He tried so hard. But Sherlock was an expert in behavior and so certainly knew how to hide his own. He couldn't see through him as Sherlock could, he could only see soft curls, cheekbones that could slice his wrists, beautiful silver eyes and those bow-shaped lips that looked positively edible when he smiled. 

_Oh._

_Oh shit._

_Oh, bloody fuck._

Stupid Greg. Stupid Irene. Stupid assuming clients. They were right. And there was nothing John could do about it. _It is what is._

"N-Nothing, Sherlock, alright? Just drop it, please?" Voice hoarse and weak with this new realization. _Maybe under different circumstances._ He'd thought that what seemed like ages ago now. He was hurt, sure. But he couldn't miss Mary like he missed all of his other break-ups. Mary Morstan wasn't real. A fabrication. 

Now there was that one thing. 

_Sherlock isn't gay._ But John wasn't sure he was either. All he knew was he'd tried to avoid it as long as possible. He was attracted to Sherlock, at the very least. 

It made sense, really. It made sense now why none of his dates had seemed fulfilling, why 'Mary' could never have made him as happy as he had been two years ago. With Sherlock.

"You don't have to sound so sad, you know. A bullet isn't enough to kill a stubborn sod like me," Okay. That was good. Sherlock thought he was afraid of him dying. And John was. That just didn't happen to be what he was thinking about. John could work with this.

John forced a chuckle. "So, what? You're Superman n-" A soft pressure on his lips shut him up mid-sentence, and he opened his mouth on instinct. _Wait._ John's eyes flew open in shock, pulling away from Sherlock, flinging himself back.

"Wha- why? Wh-w-" John spluttered, mind reeling from the barely-kiss.

"Experiment. Conclusion: You are attracted to me." John gaped at him, knowing he should probably deny it, but he was still in shock at the suddenness of what just _happened._ Sherlock was grinning like the cat who got the cream.

"Experiment? Sherlock, what the _hell_ is the matter with you?"

"Ask Mycroft. I'm sure he has a list."

"I-I'm not attracted to you! That's ridiculous!"

"Is that so?" Sherlock grabbed his wrist and John was too panicked to pull away.

"Flushed face. Increased heart rate. Dilated pupils. Don't lie, John. You're rubbish at it." That was true. _Very true._ Especially when it came to Sherlock. _Okay, start from the basics, John:_

_Sherlock kissed me._

_Said it was an experiment._

_Smiling like a child on Christmas morning._

_Conclusion.....?_

John stared at him, this rush of information in the past 15 minutes overwhelming.

"Of course, if you need time to mourn your pretended heterosexuality-"

"Shut up. Just- shut up."

"Right."

"Can I kiss you again?"

_Well, already through the gateway now, right?_

_"Oh, god yes."_

Years. He'd waited _years_ to do this and right now he couldn't even remember why. Sherlock tasted like tea and ginger nuts, his sharp tongue gliding softly against John's, to which they both responded to with matching moans, absorbed in each other's mouth. It was nothing like kissing Mary, Sherlock's stubble rubbing pleasantly against John's chin, sending chills down his spine. 

They broke apart at the sound of giggles in the doorway. 

Mrs. Hudson stood there, laughing gleefully at the both of them. "I see you two have gotten back together, then!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be last and epilogue!


	12. Epilogue

"Is that Sherlock?" Greg looked in the direction of Sally's finger, narrowing his eyes at that unmistakable figure. They'd gone for a coffee run on their break, and they hadn't expected to see the detective around today. "Yeah, it sure looks like him, huh?" No interesting cases, no jewelry robberies that would give him some kind of excuse to be in the jeweler's shop.

"Holy shit. You don't think he-" Sally cut herself off, too shocked to finish the sentence. 

"I don't know about you, but I'm definitely going to find out," And they both slipped through the door, a small bell chiming their arrival. Sherlock and John's relationship was going well and strong after a year and a half, as far he knew, and nothing really seemed to change in their public relations with each other. Greg thought they had always been dating, really, minus the shagging. They still bickered like an old married couple, John still scolded Sherlock for his social tact, and Sherlock was still... well, Sherlock. There wasn't really an adjective that fit the man good enough.

"Lestrade! Perfect. You've been married enough times, what do you think? Platinum or gold?" Greg looked at him incredulously.

" _One time_ , Sherlock. Just the one time. That being said, I'm probably not the best one to ask for advice."

"Oh, come on. I doubt her infidelity had much to do with your choice of wedding rings." Lestrade felt a smile take over his face.

"So you're really asking him, then?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and glared as if Greg was his father and he was embarrassing Sherlock in front of his friends. 

" _Obviously._ Perhaps you can be of some help, Donovan? You're a.... woman," Sally's small smile drowned in her glare that looked like it could cut through steel. Lestrade gave his friend a pleading look that he'd given a lot of people in relation to Sherlock. _Please don't punch him. He's awful touchy when he's in pain._

Sally acquiesced. "I'd go with platinum. Gold's too flashy. Where are you getting the money to pay for this, anyway?" Being a Consulting Detective didn't pay much.

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. " _I'm_ not, technically speaking. Mycroft's awfully loose with his credit cards. So, the sky's the limit, naturally." Sally giggled in spite of herself. They had never got on all that well, but she was happy for him, truly. John was a good man. And if anyone could keep Sherlock from destroying England, it was him.

Sherlock held up a silver, diamond-encrusted ring. "Satisfactory?" Lestrade shrugged.

"John's not a materialistic man, Sherlock. If he wants to marry ya, I doubt the ring will make much difference. How are you planning on asking him?"

"What do you mean _how?_ I'll just ask him. It's not that big of a deal. I wouldn't even bother, but I'd prefer to have a legal document that ties him to me."

"Wow. Love is in the air, innit?" But Sally was still smiling.

* * *

The ring felt strangely heavy in his dressing gown pocket. John was typing away furiously at his blog, and normally he'd be moaning and groaning about being bored, but this was anything but boring. _It's really not that big of a deal. It's just two rings and a contract. That's all. He's not gonna say no. Just spit it out. It won't be that hard._

"Would you like to marry me, John?" John's tea sprayed on his screen as he spluttered. He turned to face Sherlock, eyes wide and face sticky with tea.

"W-What the _hell?"_ Sherlock frowned, disappointed and mind trying to backpedal.

"That's a no, then?" John's face softened and he crossed the room, clearly trying to read Sherlock and failing miserably.

"No, that's not a no. So help me, Sherlock, if this is one of your games-"

"No games. I would like to be your husband and vice versa. Do you have any objections?" John giggled, running a hand through his sandy grey hair. He peppered soft kisses on every inch of Sherlock's face. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, unwilling to let his guard down until John said it.

"So you _will,_ just to be clear?" John laughed, a soft, smooth, sweet kiss being planted on Sherlock's lips. "Don't be an idiot, Sherlock. Of course, I will. You just surprised me is all. Only you would bring up marriage as if we were deciding what to have for dinner," Sherlock fought desperately against his giddy smile as he fished the ring out of his pocket. "Courtesy of Mycroft. Unwittingly, of course, but that hardly matters now," John slipped the ring on his finger, smiling at it and back at Sherlock, so cheerful it was almost painful. "Oh, speaking of dinner, by the way, I'm so hungry it's not even funny." Sherlock chuckled, pulling John's face out of his chest. 

"So, first dinner as fiances?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed him.

"Should've known better than to fall in love with a romantic."

"Love you too, Sherlock."

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Comments and tips make me happy!


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